indignant.

I am indignant. I'm indignant about religion, about the rights of others that are constantly violated around the world, about dumb fucking morons at work who make my life difficult. I'm indignant that anyone feels they have the right to judge me. I don't judge anyone unless they say something fucktarded to me or they're wearing socks with sandals. (Oh, and I will judge a man for wearing shorts above his knees. Can't we all just agree to abolish both of these looks forever? Good. Moving on...)

I refuse to be quiet. I refuse to nod and smile politely when people piss me off. I refuse to continue to keep my feelings to myself when a wrong needs to be righted. I'm angry. I'm offended. I'm tired. I do feel like I'm sort of constantly doing battle right now. A lot of this has to do with the circumstances of my life at the moment, and there is little I can do about it. There is only so much "going with the flow" I can maintain. So I'm willing to continue the fight for as long as it takes.

Every day, I learn more about myself. Religion is a HUGE issue for me right now. So children, let me tell you all a story, something about me you may not know:

I used to go to church. I used to sing in the church choir. I used to be a leader in our youth group. And I loved it. I loved the feeling of peace and community I got when I was worshipping and celebrating that being that Christians call "God." I felt a connection. Not just that, but for a time, I seriously considered going into the ministry as a profession. The idea of celebrating and inspiring others to feel that same connection...of performing for God, in a manner of speaking...it spoke to me. Not long after that, however, something happened that shattered my peace and comfort in that church. I do not care to get into the details of that particular fiasco at this time, but suffice it to say that as a 17-year-old being told she was not allowed to participate in the youth group anymore was unfairly devestating. I tried to find my footing again, I really did. But it was made abundantly clear to me that I was no longer welcome there. IN THE HOUSE OF GOD. What would Jesus do, indeed?

So for many years after that, I considered myself more spiritual than religious. I still liked the idea that there was something out there bigger than all the rest of us. I liked the idea that I could send my hopes and dreams, spoken aloud or silently, out into the ether and have faith that someone or something would hear me and do something about it. I saw "God" in the beauty of the world...in the colors of flowers waving in a light breeze. I felt "God" in the rays of sunshine warming my face. In the love of my friends. In the companionship of my pets. I offered up thanks to that being for all those tiny joys. I always expressed gratitude before I asked for anything, if I felt worthy of asking for anything at all. But the humanity with all it's hypocrisy and failings was what really turned me off of traditional church and the structure of organized religion. So I shrugged that off in favor of my own private form of worship.

Recently, however, I have come to believe that this life is all just a cosmic accident. We are who we are purely by accident of birth. Argue with me all you want, but that's where it all begins. I don't see the hand of a higher power in our world. I see accidents. I see anomalies. I see evil. I see hatred. I see a whole lot of shit that just doesn't make any sense. I mean, give me a break--these people who thank God for helping them through a leg of "The Amazing Race" or the people who thank God for allowing them to avoid an accident or some other catastrophe--answer me this: Does that mean God is raising a big ol' middle finger to people who didn't win that particular leg of the race? Is God saying "fuck you" to people who are in accidents or other catastrophes? "FUCK YOU, DEAD BABY, I'M A VENGEFUL GOD AND A SELFISH GOD AND IF I WANT A BABY OR A DOG OR A PERSON OR ANYTHING AT ALL I JUST TAKE IT AND YOU HAVE TO DEAL WITH IT BECAUSE I'M THE HEAD MOTHER FUCKER IN CHARGE." Extreme? Sure. But I think you get my point. People thank God when something good happens but blame each other when something bad happens. Save for that one guy, no one ever sues God when shit goes bad--people blame each other. They give all the credit to God and burden him with none of the blame. They thank him for things that make them happy and then lash out at their fellow man for not playing along with their plans. If God is all-seeing and all-knowing and in control of everything, then HE is letting or causing the bad things to happen. And don't give me any bullshit about the devil or Satan or whatever...I really don't believe in that shit, and I never did, even when I did call myself a "Christian." Frankly, that's a whole argument I don't care to get into right now. This is MY blog people, deal with it or go away. The invisible sky daddy didn't create us. Christians don't have the corner on "Heaven." We are all a cosmic accident. A smashing together of atoms and millions of years of evolutionary develpment and regression, all muddled together on this planet we call home. Nothing else explains our circumstances to my satisfaction.

So I've been calling myself a Pastafarian (if you don't know what that is, go to www.venganza.org and get educated)-slash-agnostic-slash-atheist. After watching "The Atheism Tapes," however, I've come to realize I'm more of an anti-theist. Meaning that I don't believe in organized religion at all, I don't believe in "belief" and I frankly think religion has caused much more harm than good in the world. See also "Religulous," Bill Maher's spot-on documentary about religion.

Frankly, I could write a novel about this stuff but I think others have said it before and likely said it better. It boils down to this: I don't judge anyone for what religion they practice, if they do at all. I don't try to convert anyone to my way of thinking, I only ask that they TRY to see my side of it. I have a great deal of empathy and understanding for other people. I get why some folks would be drawn to that sense of community and fellowship. However, I don't have a hole in my life that needs to be filled with that. I like my Sunday mornings quiet and peaceful. They involve coffee and CBS' Sunday Morning, the Sunday newspaper, and relaxing with my family. At the end of the proverbial day, I like to believe that I'm a good person because I choose to be. I'm not perfect, I fuckup regularly. But I learn from those mistakes and I try not to repeat them. But I try very hard to do the right thing every day. Not because I believe there's some "invisible sky daddy" wagging his finger at me from the clouds, keeping some fucking obnoxious tally on a damn abacus and waiting for my judgment day to come so he can tell me just how badly I fucked up. I do it because I believe in being a good person. I believe in love. I believe in helping people. I believe in sticking up for those who can't or won't stand up for themselves. I don't believe in anyone or anything but my own inner voice telling me how to live my life day by day. I express my love and gratitude for the people in my life. I treat every phone call with a friend or family member as though it could be our last conversation, always ending it with "I love you." But I refuse to participate in some mocked-up, cobbled-together, hypocritical practice of loving each other and judging everyone else once a week for two hours wearing fancy clothes and being judged by everyone in the place for the fancy clothes or my hair or whateverthefuck. You go your way, and I'll go mine. I walk no one's path but my own and no one else is walking mine.

That being said, I sure do love Christmas music. Don't judge me.
Love,
Lola

Malaise...

PG-13. Again, if you have any trouble imagining or dealing with me as a sexual being, read no further.

I find myself in a rather strange funk lately. My sleeping habits have gotten all fucked up, and I don't know why. It's likely not any one particular reason, just a combination of things, or even a different thing every night. I don't want to write on here about my job, or my work. I'm very fortunate to have the job that I do, and I absolutely love my job. But we're going through some "changing pains" at that joint, and everyone is stressed to the max and working even harder than usual. So complaining about it just isn't right, because we're all in it together, and we're all employed. I know that the stress and whatnot are likely contributing to my sleep dilemma, but that's not the only thing. I'm sure a few food and beverage indulgences, combined with no workouts this week, are all aiding my insomnia. Let's also give credit to my darling kittehs, my crappy phone, and my natural sleep cycle (which I must fight every day of my working life).

So I'm tired. I'm cranky. I feel...somewhat out-of-sorts. Lonely. Bored. A strange combination of restless and exhausted. I know that all of this is temporary--a sort of lull between wonderful days of joy and elation. I'm doing my best to just put my head down and barrel through it. This, too, shall pass.

Luckily for me (and unluckily for you, darling readers), I have no personal drama happening right now. I have made a couple of feeble attempts to stir some up, but don't seem to have the energy for it at the moment. Not enough emotional wherewithal to deal with anything more than what I'm already dealing with.

I would love to write about some beautiful boy from my past, one of the lovely sculptors of the woman I have become. But I don't have a good narrative floating through my brain at the moment. Right now, I'm experiencing more random flashes of memory. Just bits of emotional flotsam from many moons ago that seem to float to the surface and then drift away from me again...

Sheepskin auto-seat covers. A voice that could melt snow. Quirky smile. A strange love of James Bond films. Popcorn for breakfast. Shower sneak-ups (this man was like a fucking ninja...he would creep into the shower with me when he got home from PT in the mornings and scare the bejeezus out of me). Pizza delivery. Amazing, lovely sex. An out-of-town breakup. Reunited. More great sex. Separation. Another breakup, this time with him completely out-of-country. Closure. Contentment for both of us.

Silly gossip. That REM song "Stand." Gratuitous flirtation. Raging, unfulfilled sexual tension. Years of flirtation punctuated by sometimes months of silence. April Fools' Day. Bath & Body Works floorsets (we worked together). Desperate attempts to get him to kiss me, to no avail. Sweet and sexy text messages. Chris Farley. A longing I cannot put into words.

Davidoff Cool Water. Trashcan punch in the backyard. Blatant, public makeout sessions. James Taylor & Counting Crows--sad drunk. Red pickup truck. Beer. Wacky roommate. Ex-girlfriend drama. Sex on the pool table in the back room. Waterbed. New Year's Eve. Abandonment. Resignment. AOL Instant Messenger. A second try. White polo shirt. Tan. Camaro. Really fun date making waves being seen in public together again. Misunderstanding. Jealousy. Accusations. Love, but not love. Or maybe love, just not in love. Angry, awkward sleep. Resentment. More resignment. Wondering...

Wesley. Tweety Bird. Gorgeous blue eyes. Notes passed between classes. Walking me home from school. Movie quotes. Very intense teenage makeout sessions. First love. Longing. Need. Flannel shirt. Falling asleep together on the phone. Should have given in, but didn't. Regret? Maybe...maybe not. Hard to say. Ugly breakup. First real heartbreak. Friends again? Sure. Back and forth and back and forth and now...nothing.

Skater boy. Jams. Vans. Sleek black bangs falling over one eye. A tiny, multi-fold note pressed into my hand after school one day: "Will you go out with me? Y/N Circle one." Mad strange crush. Mutual friends' encouragement. Halloween carnival--he went through the haunted house with a cheerleader from another school and that was the end of that. Years later...we saw each other again. Wanna go out? Um...maybe...sometime...um...no, thanks. Still wonder about him, too...

Brown eyes and sandy hair. British Knights (with red snakeskin!--swoon!). Card tricks. Light As A Feather, Stiff As A Board. Belching "Yankee Doodle Dandy." Musical theatre. Really mad crush. First boyfriend. First kiss. FIREWORKS. Torch carried for YEARS. First ex-boyfriend whose wedding I attended.

Curly hair and roguish hazel eyes. Older. Very mature, to my young eyes. Full time job, rented house. Pothead. Sexy as hell. Naked on first date (him, not me). Wonderful cologne-scented candles. Newport menthols. Totino's pizza and ranch dressing. Smoking cigarettes in bed. "Empire Records." Piranha + Vienna sausages = hours of entertainment. Boone's Farm Strawberry Daiquiri. Sex. Sex. More sex. Hours of sex. Gatorade. More sex. Breakdown. No conversation. Tears. I can't do this anymore. Whatever happened to him? All I know is that he married the next girl he dated.

I would really like to know what became of most of these boys...the ones I don't know about, of course. A few of them I'm still in contact with. Others? I haven't seen or heard from in years. The girl they knew in me misses them still, in that strange misty-water-colored-mem'ries kind of way. I don't hate any of them. Don't harbor any anger toward them. I would LOVE to run back into them someday...to talk to them again--online, in person, it doesn't matter. Just to reconnect with those moments. Even if it's only for another moment...

Longingly,
Lola

stupid subconscious...

"You're still in love with me," he says from my unconcsious, "aren't you?" I shake my head weakly as I try to process seeing him...and seeing him with her, no less...It hurts me. It shakes me to the core. Every. Fucking. Time. You were in a suit, and you looked at me like I was the most pathetic creature you had ever seen, and yet...and yet, not like you hated me. I know you don't hate me. But...

Why, DA? Why must you continue to haunt me? My mind, my heart, my body, my memory, my subconcious...Why? Just when I realize it's been...however long since I thought of you last...I realize that by thinking about not thinking about you, I've now started thinking about you again. And I don't want to think about you anymore. But I also don't want to not think of you ever again. I'm still learning how to navigate this. I still see it, you know--our future. I see the paths that we didn't take that could have brought us together...but the point is and always will be that we didn't take them. So even though what could have been is not what is, the possibility will always remain that what could have been will become what could be.

Ah, whateverthefuck. I'm rambling.

And to OFH2, I still hold out hope for you, too. I realize now that your imminent deployment caused you to throw me under the proverbial bus so that it would be easier for you to leave. I'm so tired of being treated this way. You have no right to devestate me, to demolish what we had, just to make your life easier. Here's the truth of the matter: Until you actually find the balls to tell me to fuck off, and I mean literally tell me in writing or verbally to "FUCK OFF," I will still be here. My hope, my sad, strong hope, will stay with me until you murder it. So do with it as you must.

Dreamily,
Lola

putting the "fun" in "funeral"...

So I just got home a bit ago from my step-grandfather's (H.B.'s) funeral. He was married to my MiMa for 25 years before she passed this last summer, so he's essentially the only grandfather I've ever known. It's sad for his children and grand-children & great-grand-children, but the man lived a lovely, full life for 88 years. We should all be so lucky. His health was declining and he'd been struggling with diabetes for years, followed by Alzheimer's and most recently, lung cancer. There's sadness but also relief, because we know that he's no longer suffering. Death is a release for the dead, it's those of us left living who have to figure out how to carry on. I'm not going to lie to all of you--I wasn't close to him, but I did love and respect him and appreciated how much he loved me and my family after he married my MiMa. He was a very sweet and loving man and I'm proud to have known him. His children were all very sweet and receptive to me as well, and I wish them all the best as they carry on their lives without him.

The service was fine and I sometimes get tickled at people and things they do and say...In particular, I saw an "LOL" (little old lady) carrying a HUGE Louis Vuitton bag and wearing REALL UGGS and tights and a freakin' snowflake sweater vest and she was just so cute in that quirky old lady way. I think she was at my MiMa's funeral, too, because I remember that LV bag...

It was also nice at the graveside service, because H.B. had been in the Navy in his younger years, and so my brother had procured an honor guard of three sailors. Bless their hearts, they were so precious! I know how emotionally draining that detail can be, as the DH has served on funeral detail for the Army and has told me stories of how difficult it can be, even at the services of complete strangers. Two of them undraped the flag from the coffin and held it up for as as the third played "Taps," actually factually on a real bugle, and it was lovely. It's a sad song but also peaceful and respectful and it was just right. Then the two folded the flag (and the youngest cutie pie had some struggles because he wanted to get it just right, and he was shaking and so nervous and so determined to get it just right...how do you not fall just a little bit in love with someone who cares so much?) and they handed it to H.B.'s oldest son, and it was just...lovely. It was a nice moment and I'm glad to have witnessed it. I went to each of them after the service was over and shook their hands and thanked them for being there and for their service, and that I knew how difficult that work can be, but that we were ALL so grateful they were there.

I did try to behave, to smile reassuringly, to hug on my Daddy, to offer love & support to my family members there, and to be a good daughter and funeral-goer. HOWEVER, I must admit that because I am not a Christian, and would in most cases describe myself as a mix of Pastafarian/atheist/agnostic, I find the entire ritual surrounding death for Christians to be rather disconcerting and even off-putting sometimes. First of all, most of my father's side of the family are very religious--some Church of Christ, some Baptist--so we already don't see eye-to-eye on that subject. But I try to be at least respectful of their customs and beliefs, even when I think they're really strange and even ridiculous. A lot of this started for me when my step-mother passed a few years ago. She was married to my father for years and years, and she was also in very poor health when she passed. So of course, I had to go to the family visitation hours, also known as...THE VIEWING. What gets me is this whole putting the body on display thing. I do NOT want to look at a dead body. I don't want to be in the same room as a dead body. I do NOT want to EVER be put on display as a dead body. It's just so ick and oogy and weird and wrong to me. It makes me extremely uncomfortable because it's really just all so much rotting flesh and whatever it was that made the person THAT PERSON is gone. What's the point of looking at the shell? It got even more awkward for me when MiMa passed and the entire sermon at her service was about how the spirit lives on and the body is just a shell...then why the hell are we all parading past this open casket to look at the dead shell?!?! This makes no sense...did I mention that already? They never look real or natural or right in that state. And sometimes listening to the sermons just makes me want to laugh out loud, like that scene in "Heathers" where Wynona Ryder is laughing at the football players' funeral.

But listen, in all honesty, just because I don't believe in this stuff doesn't mean I begrudge others their beliefs. I totally understand why people would cling to this explanation of what might happen after death, and why it would bring them peace and possibly even make them better people in life. So far, I respect them and they respect me and at this point, I haven't had to argue much with those folks in my family. Believe me, if I feel the need to fight with them to make myself be heard, I will do it, but for now, I'm content to keep my mouth shut and leave them to their beliefs.

Naturally, being at a funeral makes me think of what I'd like for my own service. I'm not entirely sure where such a thing would be held, as I don't worship anywhere in a traditional sense, don't belong to any sort of church community...What I do know is that I want it to be FUN. Sad, yes, with wailing and gnashing of teeth and sorrow, of course, but mostly FUN! I want there to be wine and cheese and hysterical laughter and GREAT STORIES about me...tons of pictures of me and my family and friends and wonderful memories...feathers and flowers in riotous colors like hot pink and purple and red and orange and yellow...beads and glitter and candles. I want MUSIC...I want songs to be played and listened to and sung and celebrated as part of my life. I want everyone there to remember what I brought to their lives, be it joy or aggravation or both. I hope there are still folks around to remember me. lol I DO NOT want to be put in a box and buried in the ground...I want to be cremated and to have my ashes scattered, half in Monterey Bay and half in Boston Harbor. I want people to know that if they need me after I'm gone, all they need to is search within their hearts and there I'll be in all the great memories they have of me.

I guess that's all I have to say about that.
Love to you all,
Lola

to OFH2:

To my darling Original Future Husband #2:
I have something else I must get off my chest, proverbially speaking. I am completely at a loss as to what I could have done to suddenly make you hate me so much that you would want to see me in this emotional distress. I have this awful, wonderful gift of knowing men better than they know themselves, so I suspect that you have some bizarre guilt or regret for telling me what you did. You shared a secret with me and I will protect it to my last breath. But for some reason, you now distrust me. And/or you distrust yourself. Either way, it's terribly unfair to me, and frankly, to yourself.
I probably shouldn't admit this, but even if you called me right now and told me to fuck off and die, that you never wanted anything ever to do with me again and that I should forget you ever existed...it wouldn't change how I feel about you. I would still be here anytime you needed me. In all truthfulness, I thought we had a friendship that would last. I took it for granted that you would always be there...that I would always be here...and that someday, far in the future, the deal that we made so long ago would be honored.
I will never understand a man's ability to simply shut off anyone or anything he finds unpleasant, or to discard whomever he is finished with, without word or justification of any kind. All I'm asking is for a reason, for your truth, for your honesty, and for your presence. Your absence, the current black hole of nothingness I'm currently experiencing from you, is awful. It's torture of the worst kind. If you want to tell yourself that I'm being crazy, or overdramatic, or that I'm asking too much of you, then I guess that's what you have to do. It would just be a great relief to me in the long run if you could relieve me of this suffering by sharing that feeling with me.
What this boils down to is me asking you to look under your sofa for your balls so that you can just tell me the fucking truth and get it over with already.
Thanks,
Lola

I hate this...

I'm filled with a loneliness and restlessness that cannot be abated by anything but the one thing I cannot have. Work, TV, movies, shopping, drinking, eating, friends, relatives...they are all but blips of distraction in this dark empty sky filling my soul. Alone with myself, I can only think of what I am missing right now.

My fake boyfriends are of no use to me at the moment. They bring me no joy or pleasure, only disappointment and sadness and disregard.

Please don't ask me if I want to talk about this with you. I don't. I can't physically bring the words from my mouth that can express what I am going through and to say them aloud makes the feelings all too real. Besides that, talking about them does no good. It doesn't ease the heartache and it doesn't change this reality. It is what it is and there is nothing before me but time, stretching into a length of unbearability.

This is what no one talks about: The loneliness. It's so much worse than I ever thought it could be. It's not just about missing someone, or being alone. It's not just about being deprived of physical affection. It's not just about having to be fiercely independent once again, after years of being part of a team. It's all of that and more that I can't put into words. And that there is absolutely nothing that can be done to fix it until the time comes for it to be fixed. I question the decision, the reality, the necessity...None of it seems right. It's not right. It's wrong, all wrong, but there is no correction for it. Only minutes turning into hours turning into days and weeks and months...It is all so overwhelming at the moment.

...is this thing on?

I'm just wondering if anyone is reading this...I'm not thinking of stopping, because I NEED this outlet like ya'll just don't know. However, I am writing things for myself as well, mostly because they aren't fit for public consumption--at least, not by anyone who knows me. But I'm not getting any feedback, so once again, here I am, begging for someone to tell me something. What direction would you like to see this go in? Do you love or hate the utter randomness of it all? Please, someone...tell me something!

I'll keep writing, I just hope ya'll will keep reading.

And with it being New Year's Eve, I must absolutely wish all of you health, love, luck, and happiness in the new year. I wish fabulous things for all of us. I just don't have anything more profound than that to say.

Hugs & Kisses,
Lola